China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

yards when he saw some Taiping at last. A small group, two of them carrying torches, crossed the street ahead of him and disappeared into an alley. Several of them glanced at him, but without interest.

So far, so good. The houses he passed appeared to be empty. He saw no lights within, nor did he hear any voices. Twice he pushed open a street door and stepped into the courtyard of a house. The first was empty. In the second, a single old man, squatting in a corner under a lamp, looked at him sadly, probably wondering if this intruder was going to hurt him. His confidence growing, Guanji walked towards the lights ahead.

—

Banners. There were red-and-yellow Taiping banners everywhere. That was the first thing he noticed as he came to the yamen quarter’s open spaces. Banners, but not in the hands of Taiping warriors. Some were stuck in the ground; others were tied to posts or fastened to the overhanging roofs of the buildings. A field of banners, rippling in the wind. Campfires and lamps hanging from the buildings completed the effect. Seen from above—from the garrison wall, for instance—anyone would have thought the place was full of troops.

There were some troops: a couple of men by each fire, rows of men sitting or lying on the broad steps in front of the larger buildings. Strangely, when he boldly entered the big prefect’s mansion in the center of the yamen, he encountered only half a dozen warriors playing checkers in the big hall. They looked up at him idly. He glanced around as if he’d been expecting to find someone there, shook his head, and walked out. At the north end of the yamen he saw several big heaps of earth, obviously quarried from the tunneling under the wall, and realized that these, too, had been carefully sited so as to be visible from the garrison.

So how many men were in the quarter? He estimated he’d seen about a hundred. Double it, and double that again: It still didn’t amount to five hundred. Certainly not five thousand.

Just to be certain, he worked his way back through the streets under the western wall. It was the same story. Almost empty.

He was done. The mission had been easier than expected. With a sense of relief, he made his way back towards the empty square.

—

It was just as he had left it. The small fire was still glowing in the middle, the houses silent. Where was the Manchu woman? He stepped into the square and started to walk towards the fire so that she’d see him. He looked from side to side. Was she hiding? Had something happened to her? Did she know something he didn’t?

He heard a hiss from somewhere directly on his left, and was just turning to look, when something else caught his eye: torchlight ahead, by the remnants of the barricade in the corner. Two torches, three, four. And before he could take evasive action, a small patrol swung briskly into the square. Four torchbearers and six fully armed Taiping, led by an officer. They came straight towards him.

He froze. No good running. Better bluff it out.

“You’re going the wrong way,” the officer called. “Fall in behind.”

Obviously the patrol was making a final roundup in the town, to collect all their men. It probably meant they were leaving tonight.

He waited for them to draw level. If he fell into step at the back, he might be able to make a run for it as they left the square. The officer was only ten feet from him.

“Halt!” the officer cried. He stared at Guanji.

He looked to be about forty. His hair was grey. His bearing suggested years of authority. He had a scar down one cheek. His eyes were fixed on Guanji’s long hair, so recently released from a pigtail. Seen close up, even by torchlight, it might not look very convincing. “I don’t know you,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Zhang, sir.” It was the first common name Guanji could think of.

“What’s my name?”

Guanji saw the trap at once. If this was a senior officer, every Taiping in the city would know his name. But what could he say? He hesitated.

“You’re a spy,” said the officer calmly. He drew out a long knife.

Guanji pulled out his sword. A useless gesture, of course. The patrol could easily overpower him. It was just instinctive.

Two of the Taiping soldiers started towards him, but the officer raised his hand and signaled them to stand back. “Are you an officer?” asked the man with the scar on his face.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Prepare to die.” It wasn’t a threat. Just a statement of fact.

Understanding what was required, two of the torchbearers stationed themselves on one side of the space between their officer and Guanji, and two on the other. The little killing ground needed light.

Guanji held his sword firmly. The straight blade glimmered in the torchlight. He felt its weight, made sure that he was well balanced, and kept his eyes on his man. There were two things to watch: the point of your opponent’s weapon and his feet.

The words of the Mongolian suddenly came into his mind: “You know the trouble with you? You’ve never been face-to-face with death. To see another man in front of you, looking straight into your eyes, and know that only one of you is going to live. That’s the moment of truth.”

So this was it. The moment of truth.

Guanji did not feel fear, exactly. He was too concentrated on the business in hand. He was not a bad swordsman. He bent his knees a little, testing his balance again. The point of his sword was up, trained upon the throat of his opponent, fixed. His arm might move, but the point of his sword would not.

And then the Taiping officer with the scar began to move, and it was not like the way Guanji moved at all. He seemed to rock from side to side, as